


Death Dance

by thewayshedreamed



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, MAAS Sarah J. - Works
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Nesta Archeron, F/M, Illyrian Battle Drills, Illyrian Camps, Illyrian Nesta Archeron, Illyrians, Mates, NSFW, Nessian Sparring, Nesta Archeron-centric, Nesta Archeron/Cassian Smut, POV Cassian (ACoTaR), POV Nesta Archeron, Prompt Fill, Training, Tumblr Prompt, mate reveal, nessian angst, nessian fluff, nessian smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewayshedreamed/pseuds/thewayshedreamed
Summary: Prompt submission: Cassian sees Nesta with her hair down for the 1st timeIllyrian training, set in canonIllyrian battle drillsPost- A Court of Wings and Ruin
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 5
Kudos: 88





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This starts with an excerpt from A Court of Wings and Ruin, page 408. That scene was my inspiration for this prompt.

> _Cassian had been born for this—these fields, this chaos and brutality and calculation._

> _He didn’t stop moving, seemed to know where every opponent fought both ahead and behind, seemed to breathe in the flow of the battle around him. He even let his Siphons’ shield drop—to get close, to feel the impact of the arrows that he took in that ebony shield. If he slammed that shield into a soldier, his other arm was already swinging his sword at the next opponent._

> _I’d never seen anything like it—the skill and precision. It was like a dance._

> _I must have said it aloud because Mor replied, “For him, that’s what battle is. A symphony.”_

> _Her eyes did not stray from Cassian’s death-dance._

——

“STOP!” Cassian bellowed.

At his instruction, the clashes of steel ceased. Two flaps of his grand wings, and he was airborne, traveling the 100 or so yards to where Nesta stood. He landed firmly on the ground in front of her, sending vibrations through the earth beneath her feet. His brow was furrowed, nostrils flared, and his shoulders were tense as he assessed her.

“Problem, Commander?” she asked him dryly.

He huffed a breath through his nose, squaring his shoulders for the verbal sparring that he knew was coming.

“Nesta, who was your target?” he demanded.

“Cassian, I don’t understand the problem. You have trained me for battle, shaped my skills into what they are. Now, you scold me for employing them?”

It was true. The General Commander had started training her all those months ago, refining her physical competencies in battle as well as her strategy. Although resistant to his help when they originally arrived in Illyria, Nesta had been a talented pupil, her skills increasing at an exponential rate. Her wit and propensity for strategy served her well, and her mental tenacity helped fuel her progress through her lessons in technique.

Today was a day of group trainings, including battle drills designed to expose the legions to various strategies and threats alike. Nesta woke with an excitement on drill days, the opportunity to practice her skills pulling her from her bed earlier than any other day. She came alive in combat scenarios, as they allowed her to employ her newly honed skills without giving her the time to ruminate too much over which strategies to utilize. Only times of crisis were strong enough to compete with the brutality of her thoughts.

Additionally, she felt a compulsion to never find herself in another situation like the war with Hybern.

“Your skills are fine, and you know it. But you aren’t alone, Nesta.” His wings twitched, exposing his irritation. His voice was all rasp and intense focus; nothing of the pure and genuine male that existed off the battlefield.

“I’m fully aware, but I was disarming them easily. I don’t see why I shouldn’t take care of it.” She tossed her long braid over her shoulder, the end of it landing on her leathers just above the small of her back with a soft slap.

“You are engaging every enemy, but they are not your intended target. You need to evade them and allow your legion to support you as you move,” he reminded her firmly. “So I ask you again, _who_ was your target?”

“How am I supposed to make peace with leaving my comrades behind me, unsure of their fate?” she spat.

His nostrils flared, his patience fraying by the second. “You have a responsibility to ensure your specific skill set is where it needs to be when it needs to be there. You are not a hero for clearing the field ahead of them, only to exhaust yourself prematurely or get yourself killed,” he seethed. “Your death leaves them unprepared for your intended target and increases the odds that they die as well.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek as she considered his words.

“So should I have left you there, too? Bleeding out on that battlefield?” she hissed.

He recoiled as if she struck him, obviously surprised to hear her mention the moment they shared during the battle with Hybern. This was the first and only time she had done so.

He took a deep breath before he spoke. “Who,” he asked through clenched teeth, “was your target?”

“You,” she said through a snarl.

“Correct. Move through this field, allow your fellow soldiers to support you. Save your energy for when you get to me.” he ordered, leaving no room for protest. He took off without waiting for her reply, the wind from his wings blowing back the loose strands of hair around her face.

He repositioned himself in the target location, his shield in place. Once he lowered it, they were to begin. Nesta fell in line with the other soldiers, steeling herself for when that red shield disappeared. She was still angry, but she felt a sense of calm wash over her as her focus shifted. Cassian waited for the opposing soldiers to move to their positions, then he dropped the shield.

Nesta ran, opting to pull a long dagger from the sheath along her thigh rather than pulling the sword from across her back. She knew she could move faster without the weight of the sword in her hand, and if she were meant to evade those she confronted, she felt her dagger would lend enough defense until another soldier arrived.

She never imagined that she would feel so at home on a battlefield, that these drills would become almost therapeutic. She moved forward, deftly knocking her first opponent off their center of gravity and causing them to stumble. She didn’t hesitate to move forward as instructed, daring to glance back quickly to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She was pleased to see her comrade engage the soldier, halting any plans they may have had to pursue Nesta.

She slipped into an eerie sort of calm, evading soldier after solder in her pursuit of Cassian. She could see him where he stood, waiting. She’d yet to best him in combat, and honestly didn’t hold that expectation in the absence of using magic, but she knew she was being assessed purely on her ability to get to where he was. She continued to move, only glancing back when absolutely necessary, and she was filled with a sense of honor that her back was covered every time.

She continued to feel a certain serenity surround her as she moved from one opponent to the next. She glided through them with grace and precision; as if she had learned this battle as choreography. After successfully blocking the blows targeted at her, she was already extending her dagger to the next, carrying herself through the field. There was a certain rhythm thrumming through her; her heartbeat akin to the cadence of a battle drum. She let it guide her and propel her forward, tugging her closer and closer to her target. She let it pace her, her footfalls coordinating in time with the fall of her daggers and her transitions between soldiers. Her movements came together in perfect harmony, an art form all their own.

She moved so briskly through her opponent’s forces that her last obstacle to Cassian seemed to be caught off-guard by her arrival. She had him disarmed in less than a minute, promptly turning to lock eyes with the Illyrian warrior that awaited her.

He met her gaze with sheer focus, finally raising a scarred brow to her in challenge. She felt it like a blow straight to her chest; felt compelled to make her way to him. The steady beat of that battle drum pulled her once again, urging her feet forward toward the General Commander. She meant to break into a full run, but she felt a sharp tug on her long braid, snapping her head backward.

She risked a small glance at who held her. She didn’t rotate her body being that she was unsure of how much that would compromise her ability to evade the attacker, but she turned her head to the side and dared a peripheral look their way.

The very last solider she’d disarmed had managed to grab hold of her braid, almost all the way at the bottom, near her lower back. She cursed herself for opting to wear it this way rather than her usual crown braid, but it seemed like an incredible amount of work for an activity that provided minimal appreciation for intricate braiding.

She saw her ally engaging with the enemy who was gripping her hair, so she knew it was not their failure to cover her that got her in this position. She had likely stopped too soon, not allowing enough distance to be created between them before pausing to assess Cassian. In those seconds, the soldier had regained access to his weapon and reached for her. It didn’t surprise her, considering who had trained him. Even small opportunities could change the direction of a war, and he capitalized on her misstep in a way she had to respect, if she were honest.

All of these things burst through her brain within a couple of seconds before she started to scan it for a possible solution. Had she ever learned how to get someone to release her without getting hurt or killed in the process? The thought was pointless, because even if she had, it wasn’t serving her at the moment.

And so, she moved.

— — —

From the second Cassian had lowered his red shield, his eyes were glued to the female meant to engage him at the end of her pursuit. She had arrived in Illyria with almost no skills and even fewer battle instincts, but when he had introduced her to training, she came alive. The idea that wars were ever fought without women like her was almost comical to him as he watch her graceful figure glide straight through enemy lines.

He couldn’t, nor would be, discount her improvement or her skills in general. She had worked tirelessly for months, never wanting to find herself in a position similar to the day she was Made. She was strong, beautiful, and lethal with the blade in her hand. It was almost as if she were always intended for this.

He was relieved to see that she had taken his feedback into consideration rather than engaging every single soldier in hand-to-hand combat to spite him. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she had being that she loved nothing more than to irritate him, but he felt touched at how seriously she was taking her training.

He watched her move through the crowd, entranced by her movements. He stood with his arms crossed, shield and Illyrian blade across his back, assessing Nesta and the others. Her team was supporting her beautifully, and he couldn’t fight the smallest smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. She was almost to him now, disarming the man in front of her and pausing to look his way. He had just schooled his face into one of neutrality, thank the Cauldron, but his expressive brow quirked up of its own accord as he continued to monitor her.

That is, until the very last opponent she faced resorted to cheap shots, latching onto Nesta’s hair. He gripped it as if she were the personification of his pride, floating away from him on the wind. He held a firm grip down at the bottom, yanking her head backward in the process. It took every ounce of his training to fight the vicious snarl that threatened to erupt out of him at seeing someone touch her in such a way. She paused, but she wasn’t motionless for long.

Cassian knew his eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape as he watched in disbelief. As fast as lightning, Nesta turned on her heel, blade in hand. The Illyrian steel went through her thick braid like a knife through warm butter, sending the offender stumbling back.

Her golden strands unraveled as she whipped around and broke into a full run toward where Cassian stood. Her hair billowed around her face, framing it in a way that took his breath away. His breath was suddenly ragged, heart pounding through his chest as she ran toward him. When her steel blue eyes raised to meet his hazel ones, he had to take a step back and steady himself from the blow of emotions that roiled through him.

He knew it then, had suspected it for some time. That one word that changed everything, and by the way her eyes widened slightly, he suspected she knew it, too. She was almost to him; had already prepared the daggers in her hands to ensure she was ready whenever he deigned to attack.

Before entertaining a coherent thought about his actions, he raised his right hand in front of him, palm toward her. She slowed to a halt about 6 feet away from him, the look in her eyes a combination of determination, frustration, and something else altogether. He couldn’t breathe.

He could see his own chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his blood singing to close the distance between them. He wanted to lie to himself and claim the call of battle as the reason for his compulsion. Battle, however, was the last thing on his mind.

The wind circled the both of them, and Cassian thanked the Mother for the soothing gesture across his wings. His blood was raging, sweat pouring along the inside of his training leathers. His wings twitched with anxious energy as he continued to look at her.

Her hair was blowing around her face, a few strands slanting across it. She was a vision, the strands looking as if they were perfectly placed to frame her delicate features. Her blue eyes bore into him, made even more stunning by the contrast of the brown whipping around them. He was both angry and relieved that he’d never seen her this way before. Had he, he would have never been able to train her properly, her hair and beauty wonderfully distracting. She was the one to break the silence.

“What _now_ , Cassian?” she scowled. “I’ve made it, haven’t I?”

Her voice was much quieter than before the drill, almost breathy. She was looking intensely at him, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. He tracked her movements as she ran her hand through her strands, from her forehead to the crown of her head, to attempt smoothing them.

“Nesta.” he managed, his voice a whisper.

She continued to look at him, that unidentifiable emotion worn all over her beautiful face.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to say what he needed to through his nerves.

“You’re my mate.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for language and mature content. NSFW.

_“What now, Cassian?” she scowled. “I’ve made it, haven’t I?”_

_Her voice was much quieter than before the drill, almost breathy. She was looking intensely at him, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. He tracked her movements as she ran her hand through her strands, from her forehead to the crown of her head, to attempt smoothing them._

_“Nesta.” he managed, his voice a whisper._

_She continued to look at him, that unidentifiable emotion worn all over her beautiful face._

_He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to say what he needed to through his nerves._

_“You’re my mate.”_

—

Nesta was silent for a countless number of seconds, almost having Cassian doubt he’d ever uttered a single word. As if granting mercy on his poor, bastard soul, she finally opened her mouth.

“And, you’re my target,” she stated plainly, a matter of fact.

He blinked at her words, unsure of how to respond. His mouth opened and closed several times, but the words never came.

She sheathed both daggers and pulled her sword from the sheath across her back, the Illyrian steel singing as it was freed. Her blue eyes scanned her sword, from hilt all the way to the tip to assess its fitness. With a flick of her wrist and roll of her slender fingers, she tossed the sword slightly. It spun a couple of times before the hilt landed back in her hand.

It was she who spoke again. Cassian had never felt so incompetent.

“Magic or no magic?” she asked him, as if they hadn’t just shared a life-changing experience.

He cleared his throat. “Nesta, we don’t have to do this now. The drill is done, we—“

“All this talk about needing to force my emotions aside to complete my mission for you to buckle now?” There was no judgement in her voice; her tone as neutral as if she’d asked him about the weather. Her gaze was still fixed on her blade.

“Your drill was meant to test your ability to travel to your assigned target, and you’ve done that.”

Her eyes snapped to his, and all the air left his lungs yet again.

“Clearly. And you say we’re mates.”

He could only nod. The required focus he needed to spar with her right now seemed impossible.

“And mates are said to be equals, no?”

He nodded again, wishing she’d get to the point already. His patience was thinning by the second. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull her to him, but it seemed she was intent on pushing this training session.

“Then show me the respect you would show an equal and finish this drill,” she instructed.

That was enough to do it; to shred his fraying patience. Mates or not, he outranked her on the training grounds.

“Equals we may be, _mate_ , but you don’t give the orders out here,” he stated, as he reached behind him to draw his own sword.

He ran his thumb lightly along the edges out of habit and because he needed something to shift some of his focus toward. When he finally re-established eye contact, she was watching him intently.

“Fair enough,” she began, “on your word, then.”

A humorless chuckle worked its way from his chest at her gall to give him permission to issue orders in training. She was unbelievable. He told her as much.

“In reference to your previous question about magic: what would you do on a battlefield?” he asked her.

“It sounds as though I’d do whatever you ordered me to do, General Commander,” she deadpanned with a small, but noticeable, flutter of her eyelashes.

He let out a frustrated growl at that, tired of the pointless bickering. If it bothered her, she gave no indication.

“You use the resources at your disposable,” he snarled. “Supposing you’re as confident in your training with Amren as you clearly are now.”

Finally, the only indicator that he was getting under her skin showed itself in the flickering of muscles in her jaw.

“My training is fine,” she ground out.

“Lovely,” he said, with a roll of his shoulders. He stretched his neck, rolling his head from one shoulder to the other. “I’ll let you take the first swing, then.”

He offered an arrogant smirk at that, knowing it would grate her nerves that he implied she was the underdog. His wings twitched at a noticeable shift in the air around them, and he realized what it was once he felt the vibrations through his feet. Her power was making its appearance, finally responsive to her calls rather than unleashing itself on its whims.

The intensity of the vibrations increased as he watched a crack form in the earth just before Nesta’s feet. The fissure grew, making its way toward him and splitting the earth beneath his feet entirely. His wings responded immediately, carrying him into the air and away from the small chasm she’d created beneath him. From his position in the air, he could see darkness accumulating around her, so similar to Azriel’s shadows, but very different, too.

There was a shift in the winds, as if the current had changed entirely. He faltered slightly, but sensing the winds to his left, he instinctually banked in that direction to correct himself. The feeling of satisfaction that eased over him was short-lived, the winds shifting yet again. He corrected, but it took a third instance for him to realize it was Nesta interfering with his flight. She was manipulating the currents, and although she could only hold them for so long, the hectic variability was enough to make planning the trajectory of his flight nearly impossible.

He bristled in annoyance. Sensing the winds and knowing how to best use them to support his wings were skills he’d long since taken for granted. He should have known she would sabotage them first, so he didn’t know why he was surprised.

He landed a few feet behind Nesta, but she turned toward him before his feet were fully planted on the ground. He realized a little too late that she’d anticipated this very move in response to hers, as he watched that darkness wrap around his ankles, anchoring him in place. Luckily, he’d landed with a wide, balanced stance, although he knew it wouldn’t be enough.

She attacked with her sword, his answering swing causing both blades to shake and the clashing of steel to ring through the clearing. He tucked his wings in tight out of reflex, although he didn’t expect that she would attack him in such a delicate place. The thought of his wings gave him pause, though, and he realized her tendrils of darkness may very well react as an extension of herself, too.

He used his siphons to summon his shield, the red magic flaring suddenly and brightly. He brought it between them, immediately making Nesta’s swings of her sword ineffective. In experimentation, he lowered it toward the tendrils holding him in place and saw that they seemed to react to the proximity, twitching almost as if in defense.

He locked his gaze on her own, a smirk returning to his mouth as he raised his shield as high as he could. He pulled it down quickly, and as he suspected, the tendrils snapped back and away from him before his shield could descend upon them fully, recoiling toward the woman who mastered them. The look of surprise only passed over her face for a second, but it was enough for Cassian to make his next move.

He lowered his shield as he stalked toward her, his sword coming down on hers quickly. She deflected, impressing him even now, and spun around to swing her blade at his middle. He arched away from it just as he saw her powers launching for him again. He was able to artfully shift out of their path, sensing their approach before he was truly conscious of them.

He spun to the side, sword still extended toward her as he moved. He evaded her powers seamlessly, bringing his sword down in attack yet again. The darkness leapt away from him then, launching toward Nesta in her own onyx shield. They were acutely aware of the other’s movements, responding to each of the other’s attacks without much of a second thought. It was as if they were an extension of each other, unable to truly cause harm to the missing half of one being.

They continued that way for minutes, losing track of time as they sparred. They fell into a certain rhythm, Nesta using her powers and her sword to launch attacks at Cassian. He responded in kind, sending blasts of power from his siphons that she blocked with a manifested onyx wall. If she’d learned her movements as choreography, he’d joined her now, both of them moving to the beat of that same battle drum that had compelled her before.

He launched himself over the wall, his wings carrying him effortlessly over it. He landed directly behind her, disarming her quickly and his sword coming up against her throat faster than the time it took her to realize he was there. Before he could feel victorious, the onyx wall dissolved before them, dark tendrils choosing instead to form tightly around his own throat. He pressed his sword into her throat a little harder to encourage her to concede, but she only tightened her powers around his neck. He flexed his wings in frustration, but to his horror, they didn’t budge. Two tendrils of her power had snaked their way behind him and secured his wings in place by the talons.

He lowered his mouth to her ear, strands of her hair tickling his face as he spoke.

“I would only need half a second to end your life, sweetheart.” It wasn’t a threat, only critical information for her training.

“You overestimate how long I would need to snap your neck, Commander,” she spat, her power tightening on him yet again.

Several more seconds passed, neither of them able to make another productive move.

“Draw,” Cassian announced regretfully. He dropped his sword just as Nesta’s powers withdrew from him and disappeared altogether.

She whirled on him suddenly, anger flashing in her eyes.

“I could have beaten you,” she insisted firmly.

“There will be other drills. A stalemate is hardly a bad thing,” he assured her.

Her temper wasn’t yet satisfied. “But you and I are NOT the same!” she yelled.

He wished it didn’t hurt to hear her say it with such disdain, as if the idea of them being well-matched was abhorrent to her; as if the concept of him being her mate was unacceptable. Fighting a flinch, he forced a look of indifference onto his face as he sheathed his sword.

“Equality is not sameness, Nesta,” he began, forcing his tone to remain even and neutral. He gave her time to respond, but she didn’t take it; only sat there staring at him with a look of distaste.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. No one will lump you in with a lowly bastard like me,” he spat, leaving her standing there on the training grounds as he stalked away.

—

The forced placidness of Cassian’s demeanor haunted her for the walk back to the cabin. Her words had been her weapon and her shield for the majority of her life, yet she’d never felt the echo of the pain inflicted by them as acutely as she did during her outburst. Despite his neutral expression, Nesta felt the hurt that rippled through him at her words, and now she was left alone to hate herself for them.

The true tragedy of their interaction was that Cassian had been a blameless victim altogether. Her words weren’t insults as much as they were self-deprecation, her insecurities about the day she was Made coming to the surface as if she hadn’t healed at all. The road to acceptance of her immortality had been a long one. Weeks had passed before she could brush her teeth in front of the mirror, the risk of seeing her altered canines too great. It was brutal enough that her ears refused to be camouflaged, and every one of her senses overwhelmed her, even in sleep.

Her coping methods weren’t exactly healthy in those times, her respect for the vessel she called her body being at an all-time low. Her seemingly infinite lifespan made everything seem so meaningless, and it had taken such a long time to no longer resent it. Once she finally accepted that she could have a new life, fulfilling in its own right, she’d shifted her attention to harnessing the powers she possessed. She’d grown weary of having them control her, and she’d turned to Amren to help her learn to wield them.

At the center of her journey to healing had been Cassian. He showed her an infinite amount of patience when she’d started to train physically with him, pushing her to her limits, yet empowering her to surpass them all the same. She owed him a tremendous thanks for all he’d done for her to this point, but he would never accept any credit. He insisted that she healed on her own and that it was no small feat to have done so. The male welcomed her mental strength and her stubbornness, telling her he’d want nothing else in a fellow soldier on the battlefield. He accepted her fully for who she was as High Fae, but he insisted on acknowledging the parts of her that were present even before. The parts of her that were Nesta. That conversation alone had brought her to tears, and her friend had only wiped them away and tucked her into his side as they stood on the balcony. He never spoke of it again.

The driving force of her training, both magical and with weapons, was to live up to this crippling, impossible standard as High Fae. She knew she had an eternity to make her impact count, and she refused to be a preternatural waste of space. She pushed herself to exceedingly high standards in every session, welcoming the mental exhaustion that eased her to bed each night and the muscle soreness that greeted her upon waking. Those things meant progress, and progress meant that Nesta’s contributions in this life would be valuable ones, no matter what Nesta wanted them to be.

She approached the cabin, angling for the side wall to enter through the small antechamber they used after training sessions. The room was equipped with a large stone shower, a wash basin, a work table for sharpening or repairing weapons, and numerous hooks along the walls where they stored their swords and training leathers. Nesta reflected on how this place had once been so foreign, entirely Cassian’s, yet now she felt as if she were walking into her own home, too.

The lights were on when Nesta pushed the heavy door, and the soft sound of splashing water echoed through the room. She hoped she would have missed him, that he would already been done cleaning up, but it seemed their paths were destined to cross yet again. The butterflies in her stomach were all chaos and confusion. She did her best impression of a woman unaffected and walked toward the hooks she often used to store her things.

Cassian turned his head to look her way, but he promptly returned his attention to splashing water on his face. She deftly unbuckled her sword’s sheath, giving it a once-over and reaching high to hang it on the hook; the hooks having been hanged far before she arrived and clearly for someone of Illyrian decent. The absence of Cassian’s laugh at her expense was more painful than she thought possible.

She removed her boots, scooting them up so that the toes touched the wall, and started to work on the buckles of her training leathers. She unfastened them quickly, her fingers never fumbling over the buckles as they’d done so many months ago. Without her boots, she had to stand on tiptoe to hang her leathers, craning her neck to ensure she draped them securely before letting go. Her camisole and tights were all that remained, and she reflected on a time where being in such clothing around another person would have seem repulsive to her. Now, she realized the comfort in her own skin made her wardrobe less of a focal point of her mental energy.

She was vaguely aware of Cassian drying his face, and she resisted the urge to whirl around and hurl apologies his way. The male communicated pretty clearly with his body language that he wasn’t necessarily in the place for talking, so she decided against it and turned to walk into the main room of the cabin. Her feet had only managed a step and a half before she felt a large hand wrap securely around her wrist to hold her in place.

“Nes,” he breathed. “Wait.”

Maybe she’d been wrong about his willingness to hash out the things she’d said on the training grounds. He pulled her arm gently to encourage her to turn toward him, and she did so willingly. To say she wasn’t prepared for the concern written all over every handsome feature of his face was an understatement. His other hand raised to grip her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gingerly tilting it up toward the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he looked at the faint scratch across her throat, already healing thanks to her Fae blood.

She gripped his wrist to ease it away from her chin so that she may look at him.

“It’s nothing,” she insisted. She felt a pang of guilt, his guilt, course through her chest.

Two hazel irises met her gaze, and she resisted reaching out to caress the worry from his brow. A small washcloth was perched over the edge of the wash basin, and he turned to retrieve it. He lifted her chin again, securing it in place by resting his palm on the side of her neck and tucking his thumb delicately under her jawbone. His strokes were soft as he cleaned the area around her irritated skin, creating an almost humorous juxtaposition between the action and the war-torn warrior before her.

A small breath forced itself through her nostrils; the tiniest huff of a laugh. His eyes lifted to hers again at the sound, and the small smile he wore eased the anxiousness that had taken residence in her chest.

“What?” he murmured.

“It’s a scratch, Cassian,” she said through a smile, “I’m not sure what you thought would happen when you put a sword to my throat.”

He leveled a glare her way at her words, but there was no bite behind it.

“Still. I’m only cleaning it to prevent infection,” he defended.

“You’re fussing.”

He flicked her nose, growing impatient with her snark but unable to fight his growing grin. “Hush, you.”

She snapped her teeth playfully toward the hand cradling her neck, and he flinched slightly at the action. The inclination to giggle almost overtook her, but the sight of his dilated pupils rendered her incapable.

“You don’t want to bite me, sweetheart,” he rasped. It was unclear whether he was stating something factual or if it was a veiled warning.

“Presumptuous of you,” she joked, although her voice betrayed her by sounding far more meek than she preferred.

Her eyes scanned his face, noting that the hazel of his eyes was nearly non-existent now. She noticed deep purple along the side of his neck, and upon further inspection, she realized there was a deep bruise all the way around from the pressure she’d applied.

Her hand raised softly to his neck, her thumb stroking gently near his throat.

“I hurt you,” she whispered, continuing to inspect the column of his neck.

“Bah,” he said as he shrugged off her concerns, “it’ll be fine by morning.”

He tossed the washcloth into the basin once he finished his task and leaned back against it. Her hand never left him; the loss of contact a painful hypothetical she didn’t want to experience.

“And what of the words I hurled at you?”

His breath hitched, and she found that she was holding hers as well.

“I felt it,” she breathed, hoping her words were enough.

If he had planned to ignore her question, her statement made it less possible. He glanced at the floor between their feet before answering her, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

“That will pass by morning, too. Nothing I haven’t worked through before,” he replied, the words of someone resigned to his fate.

“Surely you know that’s not how I meant it,” she insisted. His facial expression did nothing to confirm her statement.

Her hands cradled his face, gently bringing it up to look at her. He resisted slightly, aiming his gaze anywhere but on her face. She waited patiently, and finally, he looked at her.

“Nesta, I was just as shocked as you were to realize we were mates. I know it doesn’t make sense, and I want you to know I expect nothing from you. I’ve lived over half a century assuming I had no mate at all, so I won’t pressure you to accept the bond between us.” His expression was earnest, but his words were unacceptable.

“You believe I meant you aren’t enough, that you aren’t worthy?” She did nothing to disguise the pain in her tone.

His eyes widened slightly as he scanned her face for any clue that would make sense of her words. A chuckle worked its way from her chest, and she watched as his jaw tensed in irritation.

“I was angry and disappointed with myself; never you. I felt our bond on the training grounds, and I panicked. Do you realize how intimidating it is to look up at you, the General Commander of the Night Court’s armies, and realize you’re my mate?” Her words were quiet and breathy, as if she were sharing the most secret parts of herself.

Maybe she was.

His expression twisted into one of confusion, his head shaking slightly as if trying to clear some imaginary fog that had settled over them. His words never came.

“You don’t hear the other soldiers when you walk away, the way they speak of you as a legend in your own time. You have fought countless wars, defended thousands, thrown yourself between lethal threats and your family, and trained legions upon legions of others to do the same. Do you know the effect your existence has had on this court; on this world?”

Cassian could only blink, silver rimming his lower lids slightly. Her thumbs started to stroke him gently on the cheeks in comfort. She felt tears of her own prick at her eyes at the thought that he’d never realized these things, that no one had ever told him.

“And beyond that, you are one of the most compassionate and authentic males, or men, that I’ve ever known in my short life. All these years of war and pain, and you continue to love openly and not let those things jade you. I’m in awe of you everyday.”

His eyes squeezed shut as his throat bobbed, and a tear slipped down cheek. She wiped it away quickly, unsure of how he would react if she fussed over his emotion.

“Here I am, a human-woman-turned-High Fae, training to control my powers and as a soldier, and all I can think about is how I will ever measure up to what you’ve contributed in this life. I promise I will do my best to try. If you’ll have me,” she finished, swallowing dryly and holding her breath.

Cassian’s calloused hands dropped from his chest to rest on her waist, his thumbs stroking over her ribs. He looked down at her then, tugging her toward him and nestling her between his thighs. Their hips were flush, and Nesta was overwhelmed with the sensation at each point of contact between them. He brought his forehead to rest against hers, their noses brushing against each other as he continued to look at her.

“Say it,” he asked, near pleading.

She knew what he meant; felt it in her very self.

“Cassian,” she murmured, “you’re my mate.”

An almost pained sound left him as one of his hands lifted to cradle her cheek. He brought his lips to hers, but he applied no pressure to them yet. Her body was pulled tighter to his, and she dropped her hands to his shoulders to get as flush to him as possible. If he didn’t kiss her within seconds, she thought she may rage.

"What are you waiting for, you brute?” she snapped quietly, almost crazy with want.

A one-sided grin graced his face, and she thought she may never see anything more beautiful.

“There she is,” he murmured playfully, before he pressed his lips firmly to hers.

Nesta melted against him, her hands running down his chest and around to his back to feel as much of him as possible through the tight tee he’d worn under his leathers. How she wished he’d worn nothing under them instead.

His arm wrapped around her waist to keep them flush, as his hand tangled into her wind-blown hair. He gripped it at the roots, giving a subtle flex of his fingers to tug her head back slightly. She mewled against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to run his tongue along the seam of her lips. The feel of their tongues running along each other was nearly overwhelming, and Nesta gripped his back roughly, mostly to prevent their wandering before she was ready.

Her last two fingers of each hand slid down either side of the wing joint between his shoulder blades in her haste to find purchase there. Both wings flexed slightly at the stimulation, and Nesta broke their kiss in fascination. She released her grip on his back, turning her hands to run her fingers gingerly up and down the joint in a teasing motion.

Cassian’s hissed as his hips snapped forward, seemingly unable to control how they rolled against her at her touch. His head dropped to her shoulder as he let out a long groan at the feel of her hands on his wings. She pressed her cheek to his temple, already missing his lips on hers.

“Sensitive?” she breathed. She repeated the motion, feeling victorious at the growl that left him.

He turned his head so that his lips moved against her neck as he spoke. “You have no idea.”

Worry coursed through her at her thoughtlessness. She wondered if he was even okay with his wings being touched after everything he’d been through, after how many times they were mutilated.

“Don’t stop,” he encouraged, “it’s okay.” Her chest swelled at the idea that he could feel her as she had felt him earlier.

She continued her ministrations, and Cassian’s hands slid down her body to rest on her backside. He pulled her impossibly closer to him, moaning into her neck as he pressed kisses from her shoulder to her jaw. She moaned at how his lips felt pressing against her, her core nearly molten between the kisses, the feel of his hips, and his grip on her.

“Cassian, wait,” she said suddenly.

His face pulled back from her instantly, his hands returning to their prior home on her waist.

“What is it?” he breathed, no small amount of concern laced through his deep voice.

“I’m disgusting,” she blurted, her cheeks blushing at the words tumbling from her mouth.

He chuckled at that, amusement dancing all over his face.

“What? You’re no such thing,” he assured her, bringing his mouth back down to hers. She blocked him with a gentle press of her fingers to his lips.

“As if you would agree with me,” she snarked, moving her fingers from his lips to the apex of his wing, just below one of the grand talons.

The Commander let out a quiet whimper, and she wondered if anyone else in the world would believe him capable of the sound.

“Shower with me,” she whispered, her cheeks blushing slightly at such a bold request.

His only response was to carry her into the shower and turn on the water, clothes and all.

—

The squeal that came from Nesta once under the sudden spray of the shower was a sound Cassian aimed to commit to memory. He pressed his mouth to hers, but the kiss was only mildly productive through their smiles and soft laughter. With his hips pinning her against the stone wall, his hands were free to roam over her as he’d longed to do so many times before. She gasped into his mouth as he grazed his hands over her thighs, her hips, her waist, before gently taking her wrists and holding them over her head.

“These hands may get you in trouble,” he warned, as he laced their fingers together.

She responded by pressing her lips roughly to his, and he did nothing to resist his hips rolling against her in a steady rhythm. Having her this close, after so many months of forced distance, was the best kind of torture. The gasp that left her made him wonder what beautiful sounds she would make as he pushed into her, but he quickly leashed his thoughts. He had no interest in rushing this.

Her hips rolled in tandem with his own; searching for the very same friction he desperately craved. He groaned into her mouth as he captured her bottom lip between his teeth; the urge within to claim her a beast that refused to settle. The sixth sense of his wings flared, acutely aware of a gentle pressure across the entirety of the both of them. It took Cassian only seconds to realize the impossibility of the sensation since he had her hands pressed securely to the stone wall next to her head, but his wings stretching wide to both sides gave him pause. Reluctantly, he pulled his mouth away from his mate to glance over his shoulder at the possible offender.

He marveled at the discipline displayed by Nesta’s powers in such a short amount of time. With barely a thought, she’d sent them across his wings in the form of drafts of air and the gentle of caress of darkness. There wasn’t a square inch of his wings that wasn’t victim to her machinations. The male feared that such broad stimulation of the sensitive membranes would end things before they got started, but there was no way he could willingly ask her to stop.

Her lips crashed into his once he turned his face back to her, and the combination of his wings, her lips, and the movement of their hips had Cassian almost vibrating with pleasure.

“ _Nesta_ ,” he groaned through clenched teeth, “please.”

The begging left his mouth before he realized what he was saying. For what, he was still unsure.

He did know; however, that her very essence had called to him since he met her.

_Nesta. Nesta. Nesta._

The pressure applied to his wings increased, her tendrils of power starting to trace the delicate bone structure throughout. He released her hands in favor of gripping her thighs, before running them up her torso to remove her camisole. Her hands raised immediately to aid in the removal of her clothes, but they were running beneath the hem of his tee just as quickly. Her lips left him as she assessed his body, her brows furrowed in confusion as she evaluated the barrier his wings became to removing his shirt.

“How do I..” she trailed off, eyes searching the garment frantically as if it was burning her.

He gripped the front it and pulled it away from him sharply. The buttons along the back panels flew off at the force, and he moved a hand over his head to grip the shirt between his shoulders and remove it.

“Much better,” she whispered, her arms swiftly wrapping around his neck as she moved against him.

He took the opportunity to run his hands along her sides, his calloused palms finally finding their homes on each of her breasts. Nesta groaned at the contact, then slowly dropped her legs from his waist. She turned her attention to her tights, forcing the tight, sodden fabric down each leg. Cassian worked on his own bottoms before running his gaze appreciatively along her form. Her fingers traced the tattoos across this chest and followed them until she ran out of ink. She shifted to tracing the lines of his abdomen, never deterred from her goal.

His breath caught in his throat when her steel blue eyes locked on his, full of adoration.

How many times had he prayed to the Cauldron that she would look at him that way?

Her lips returned to his, and he braced his hands on the stone wall around her head to prevent falling against her entirely. Her slender arms wrapped around his waist, and he relished the way she felt pressed against him. A small smile flashed across her lips, but before he could ask what she found so amusing, her lips were gone. Nesta dipped under his arm and his wing, ending up with her form pressed against his back.

“You’re so beautiful,” she remarked, her arms leaving his waist cold as she pulled them away.

Cassian tried to turn around, but she stilled him with her palms on his back.

“Not so fast,” she teased, her hands moving to run softly over the thin membranes.

She used her fingers to trace the scars littered across each wing, and the sensitive scar tissue had his hips snapping forward reflexively yet again. He growled at the sensations, but her focus never faltered. When her soft lips pressed against one of his scars, his hand flew back to grip her, but she moved nimbly out of his reach.

“Hands up, Commander,” she ordered playfully. “Unless, I’m not to give orders in here either.”

Once the words left her mouth, each of her perfect, sinful hands grasped the bone framing the top of each wing. She gripped them softly, massaging them back and forth as far as she could reach, in her own type of cruel torture. A long, husky moan left him as his hand landed roughly on the stone, fearing she may pause her movements if he didn’t cooperate.

“You can have whatever you want from me,” he assured her, his head dropping forward as his eyes screwed shut in pleasure.

She shifted her attention closer to the center, continuing to massage him in a way that sent electricity through his entire body and had him clenching both fists in a true test of his self-control. When her lips brushed the center of the joint, he was basically writhing, his length growing so hard that it was nearly purple. He was determined not to interrupt her despite how it pained him, but his resolve broke entirely when he felt her tongue trace the length of the joint between his shoulders.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he cried out before he whirled around to claim her mouth with his. “I need you,” he murmured, as he turned his head to slant his mouth over hers once more.

Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctually as he lifted her against him and lowered them to the floor. Her beauty was never lost on him, but something about her straddling him on the stone floor of this shower, hair down with water running down around them and over the lines of her body, was nearly ethereal.

Nesta lowered herself onto his length, clutching the hair at the back of his neck like a tether to their world. His legs were slightly bent behind her as he clutched her body to his own, cradling her comfortably over him as they moved together. He felt his eyes roll back in pleasure, her gasp just as intoxicating as he’d imagined earlier. Her lips found his again, her beautiful moans and whimpers against his mouth nearly killing him.

One of his hands rested on her lower back to aid her in rocking her hips against his as his other gripped her cheek. Her cries were coming in earnest now, the delicious tension around his cock telling him she was as close as he was to release.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he praised against her lips. Every move she made was totally and utterly right.

Her eyes opened to lock onto his as they moved, and the affection that flooded him almost brought him to tears. He was twitching inside her, totally overwhelmed with the breathtaking woman above him.

“I'm—” she breathed. “I’m so close.” The moan that followed proved her claim.

Her head fell to his shoulder as her pace increased, her hips beginning to jerk and stutter with her impending release. Her lips brushed against his neck, her warm huffs of air sending chills down his spine. Cassian gripped her back tightly, his hands running roughly all over to feel as much of her as possible.

Her panting increased, and to his surprise, his chin lifted slightly in response. It wasn’t uncommon for Illyrians to claim one another with their teeth during their mating, but the Commander never anticipated that those nearly ancient instincts would flow to the surface so suddenly after years of protecting his throat at all costs. He assumed training and self-preservation would win out.

Clearly, he was very wrong.

As if sensing his desire, Nesta pressed her lips to his neck, working her way up from his shoulder to behind his ear. He groaned at the contact, her lips setting a trail of fire that spread over his entire body.

When he thought there was no more pleasurable feeling in this life, she proved him incorrect again by gently running her sharp canines back along her original path. He whimpered at the sensation, his hips jerking forward with need. His chin lifted higher and his head leaned to the side to give her full access; completely at her mercy.

His lips grazed over her shoulder as they moved, her cries growing louder in anticipation of her release. Cassian’s own grunts and groans echoed with hers against the stone, and when he felt her grow impossibly tighter, he knew it was a matter of seconds before she shattered.

“I love you, Nesta,” he whispered against her shoulder. He hadn’t planned to tell her as much, but today was off the rails long ago.

Before he had a chance to wonder if she would return his feelings, he felt her teeth sink sharply into the base of his neck as her orgasm took her. The feeling was indescribable, something sharp, painful, yet so good that it nearly paralyzed him. His head fell back as he roared, his eyes rolling and fluttering as his own release barreled through him.

She clung to him, an arm thrown around his shoulders and one snaked up the back of his neck so that her hand was tangled into his hair. His name rolled off her lips repeatedly once she removed her teeth from his flesh; the sound wrecking him and healing him all at once. They continued their movements to ease each other down from their highs; until no sound remained but labored breaths and the water pattering over the shower floor.

Nesta was the first to sit back and create any distance between their bodies. Separating from her seemed like the most ridiculous concept he’d ever entertained, but it was made worth it by the wide, beautiful smile spreading across her lips.

Nesta Archeron was beaming. And she was beaming at him.

She traced the planes of his face with her fingers, taking him in as if he were a piece of fine art. His chest squeezed at her clear appreciation. Post-orgasmic bliss looked good on her.

“Shall we?” she murmured.

It took him several seconds of blinking at her dumbly to remember they were in the shower.

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He shook his head in an attempt to orient to his surrounding again.

She stood, her loss nearly unbearable to his newly mated instincts. He rose to meet her, her hands already extending toward the soaps. They stayed that way for some time, trading soft kisses and holding each other under the spray. They washed each other slowly, reverently before shutting off the water and stumbling inside, wrapped around each other once again.

—

It took two weeks after their mating for Cassian to tolerate training again. His instincts roared even as he stood in position, but at least they were at a manageable level. Those two weeks, he had been more than happy to delegate training to the camp leaders and couldn’t be bothered to think of anything but his mate.

He walked the legions through several warm-up exercises, preparing them for a full day of drills in hand-to-hand combat. His eyes scanned the soldiers for the eyes he knew would meet his every time; of the woman who changed his life irrevocably overnight. He reminded himself constantly of his good fortune, never willing to take for granted the eternity he got to spend with her.

His eyes found her quickly, as if there was some signal pointing straight to her. His breath caught as he observed her, his eyes scanning her from the toes up. He took in her boots, scuffed from countless hours of pushing herself to continuously improve. He appreciated the long lines of her legs in her training tights, shoving down the memory of what it felt like to slide them off of her.

Her sleeveless tunic floored him most, not because it was immodest, but because it revealed the half-sleeve of intricate swirls on her sword-bearing arm. The tattoo started at her shoulder, the very shoulder where he’d first admitted his love for her, and extended to her elbow in a flourish of black ink. She donned it as a proclamation of their mating bond, the direction and pattern of swirls emulating that of the tattoos spanning his chest. The only slight variation was in the design; the lines at her shoulder more bold and lined with thorns. As the lines traveled, they became smoother, more delicate until they ended in a pattern of soft celebration.

He’d asked her of the meaning during their time away for their mating, curious if it told a story of their stormy past. She had eyed it appreciatively, going on to explain that the entirety of the tattoo reflected their bond, but the design itself was purely her own. To her it represented her own path, starting with severity and pain and ending in true self-acceptance; comfort in her own skin, whether it be human or otherwise. It reminded her that the darkness may visit, but she’d healed in a way that left her resilient. He recalled how he’d felt sheepish at his assumption that it was entirely to do with their relationship, but she assured him she took no offense. The tattoo was striking, and so very Nesta, that he’d fallen in love with it all over again.

Those powerful blue eyes landed on his, and he felt her just as clearly as he saw her standing all those meters away. He offered a soft smile, and the one she sent in return could have knocked him off his feet. Her hair was up, in a crown braid fit for a queen, small wisps blowing in the wind around her face. She was perfect.

He shook his head to bring him back into the present, silently fussing himself for being so easily distracted by his mate. His shield was in place, the soldiers on edge for his signal to begin. Just before slipping into the focus he needed as their General Commander, he sent one final thought into the skies.

He thanked the gods, any and all that were listening, that he had an eternity to do this dance.

With her.


End file.
